


Century Eggs

by chaya



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Crack, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Oviposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6191659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaya/pseuds/chaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone complained that there’s no oviposition fic in the Fallout 4 fandom, and I am here to ruin everything.</p><p>Deacon gets nabbed by an Institute scientist and things go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Century Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> I'm here to chew gum and write nonsense.

Virgil takes Deacon’s shoulders, and Nora takes the legs. Together, they ease him on to the medical table, where he proceeds to curl up in a fetal position. Virgil then takes one last look at Hancock, who is still holding a bag that _clearly_ contains a severed head, before turning to Nora.

“Perhaps you should start from the beginning,” he says stiffly.

Nora bites her lip and looks to Deacon for a moment before taking a deep breath. “We’ve been… hunting down Institute scientists who escaped the explosion,” she says, and Virgil preempts whatever she was about to follow with by gesturing impatiently. “There was a tip on someone near the Quincy ruins… we followed it, the three of us, and split up to hit different buildings. Deacon never made it to the rendezvous point that afternoon, so Hancock and I stormed the building. We took fire and Hancock took him down.”

Hancock is eyeing the bag in his hand, as if to indicate to the head that it knows what it did.

“So you killed the scientist that had your friend,” Virgil says, eyes narrowing.

“We didn’t have a _choice,_ ” Nora snaps. “And we assumed he had Deacon hostage! Not as some guinea pig!”

Virgil pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Fine. So the scientist was shot down. Then what?”

Nora walks past him and gently pulls up the back of Deacon’s t-shirt, exposing strange puncture marks on his lower back. “He was drugged and strapped to a table. On his side. It… I mean, back in my day, I’d say these were marks from a spinal tap or something, but…”

“…but you brought me the severed head of the man who experimented on him in case I might have some insight on who he was or what he might do to someone.”

“Ding ding,” Hancock rumbles, and fishes around in the bag until he pulls the head up by the hair. “Whatcha got on him?”

Nora flinches, clearly having hoped that Hancock would treat the situation a little more delicately, but Virgil’s face is not one of a delicate sensibility being challenged. Instead, his pale complexion is reddening very quickly.

“Virgil?” Nora tries.

“ _Dave_ ,” Virgil hisses.

“Dave,” Nora echoes uncertainly, eyes widening in alarm as Virgil closes in on Hancock and snatches the head from him. He’s staring into the man’s vacant eyes with seething hatred.

“Alas, Horatio,” Deacon mumbles weakly from the table.

Virgil doesn’t appear to hear him. “You _imbecile_. There was a _reason_ you were taken off the Hominodea Project. Your pet theories and waste of resources were shameful, and you’re lucky to have been sent to the Wasteland on a goose chase rather than used as a test case for-”

“Virgil!” Nora grabs his arm.

Virgil whirls on her. “He’s _a waste of training_. The epitome of everything that was wrong with the Institute. Experimentation for the sake of it, with no interest in practical applications or-”

“Virgil.”

Nose curling up a little, Virgil huffs out a last sigh and grabs the edge of Hancock’s bag so he can stuff the head back into it. There’s a sense of finality to the movement, as if Virgil feels that ‘Dave’ has been put back where he belongs. “I assume,’ Virgil says dryly, “that you brought back whatever supplies you found at his hideout.”

Nora pulls an Institute pack out of her bag and opens it on the counter, showing him several vials and injectors that vaguely resemble stimpacks. Two are empty.

“This is bad,” Virgil says. He looks to Deacon, rounding the table so he can look the other man in the eye. “Let me guess: the first needle felt very painful, and then you were numb and barely felt the next two?”

Deacon puffs out a little laugh. “You’re a good guesser,” he says weakly.

“Local anesthetic,” Nora guesses, “and then…?”

“And then the…” Virgil trails off, eyes darting from the bag to Deacon. “Did he say anything to you? Anything at all?”

“Um. Sub-optimal specimen…” Deacon’s voice is faint, and he doesn’t seem to notice when Hancock and Nora move in closer, leaning over him protectively. “Said I was healthy, though…? And that I’d need another injection at 0800, to keep the… enzymes… or… I don’t really remember…”

“0800, it’s nearly an hour past that.” Virgil straightens and reaches for the next injector in the series, only to be stopped halfway through by a shotgun digging into his ribs.

“Hey now,” Hancock’s singsonging, “maybe we explain ourselves before we go sticking Deacon with anymore non-recreational drugs. Maybe we do a _tiny_ bit of explaining. Buddy. Pal.”

Virgil huffs impatiently. “The process is already in motion. To simply neglect to continue it would lead to a _worse_ outcome, I assure you.”

“Explain _more_ ,” Nora says sternly.

“His body needs to be stimulated with the correct … things… in the correct amount, at the correct times… so that it changes and grows to accommodate the… ovums.”

Hancock’s squinting like that was gibberish, but Nora’s eyes are widening. “The _whats?_ ”

“His abdomen could rupture if we don’t continue the treatment.” Virgil looks from Nora to Hancock, frazzled and clearly not enjoying the process of dumbing down the science of this. “His… stomach. Could split open.”

“We got it,” Hancock snaps. “Deacon? You up for this?”

A pause. “Jab me, but I want a lollipop after.”

**

**

Nora has to leave to tell the settlement to give them another week or so before they’ll return. Hancock, who probably sympathizes more with Deacon’s painful transition than a smoothskin would, hangs out and rubs his back.

“You’re probably not the hugest fan of being helped out by an ex-Institute guy,” Hancock murmurs, on the first night, when Virgil is somewhere else in the vault.

Deacon’s mouth twists, curling into a tighter ball. “That’s not what I’m focusing on,” he mutters.

“Still.” Hancock chews his lip. “Nora snuck a whole bunch of weird chemicals in here for Virgil to play with. Bet there’s something in here that would melt the skin off of ol’ Davey’s head.”

“You’re saying you’re going to give me the skull of my tormentor to make me feel better?”

Hancock shrugs. “Might look nice on your dresser.”

“You’re the sweetest.”

**

When Nora comes back, Virgil walks her through the changes so far. Virgil calls the skin texture ‘abnormally pebbled’, and perks up when Nora calls it 'iguana-like’.

“An iguana’s like a chameleon, right?” Hancock tilts his head uncertainly.

“They’re both lizards,” Nora says with a shrug. “Virgil, did you test him against the deathclaw meat?”

“He’s _not_ turning into a deathclaw,” Virgil says, clearly enough that Deacon can definitely hear over the recent symptom of 'roaring sound in the ears’. “Nor any other radiation-induced species. I’ll let you know if I close in on anything more specific than that, but to be honest I’m more interested in making sure that his original organs are moving enough to accommodate the new one without causing anything more than gastrointestinal discomfort.”

“'The new one’,” Deacon echoes sourly, uncurling long enough to roll onto his other side to glare at them all over his sunglasses. “Just say it.”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Your new… _uterus_.”

“Damn right.” Deacon scowls. “I’m an expecting mother of God Knows What, and Nora, I’ve read the pre-war books. I know what this means.”

“You can’t-”

“I want pickles, ice cream, and everything else that doesn’t exist anymore. I want foot rubs.”

“Deacon.”

“My clothes don’t fit right anymore. Buy me new ones and tell me I’m still beautiful.”

Virgil sighs and leaves to make more synthetic coffee.

**

Nora goes out to get as many varieties of foods as she can carry in her pack. When she comes back, she walks through the barracks to find all the beds stripped of their sheets. Hancock, who’s smoking outside the lab room, gestures for her to come over.

“He’s turning grey, but Virgil promised me his bloodflow’s okay.” Hancock blows out a thin stream of smoke to his left, away from Nora, before continuing. “And his hands are… his nails are weird. Just steel yourself, okay?”

“Grey. Sharp nails. Got it.” She moves stoically toward the door.

“Also,” Hancock says, and Nora stops.

“Yes?”

“He’s _not_ making a nest,” he enunciates slowly. “He’s made it very clear that he’s just cold and wants a nice spot to lie down. Definitely. Not. Making a nest.”

Nora stares at him, uncertain. “A nest,” she repeats.

“Right. No nest. Definitely not a nest.”

“Just… a blanket fort?”

Hancock nods. “That’s good. We can call it that.”

**

It’s definitely a nest.

**

Virgil is visibly torn between not being able to stand Deacon and being extremely disappointed that Deacon is so impossible to stand. On the one hand, Deacon does not stop asking questions, prodding Virgil about the Institute, or making jokes. On the other hand, most of those jokes are Shakespearean quotes Deacon is leveling at the skull Virgil 'liberated’ from Dave’s fleshy head, and when they’re not Shakespearean, they’re from some Nobel-winning novel or even a pre-war movie.

Shakespeare, and perhaps their shared hatred of Dave, are what keep them from killing each other.

**

 _Say it,_  Deacon writes on day four, when Nora is looking at him with a blank expression.  _Whatever it is. Just say it._

Nora takes a deep breath. Deacon, with blackened and narrowed eyes, waits her out.

“Beer belly Godzilla.”

**

Nora takes some heat lamps from every diner she can think of and brings them back to the vault. Virgil doesn’t know what they are at first, but as soon as she explains, he thinks it’s an excellent idea and begins to wire them up.

“He’s completely lost his interdental consonants,” Virgil remarks, as if he’s just remembered.

“His what?”

Virgil takes a calming breath. “Before, he could make most sounds in the English language but switched to writing out of self-consciousness. Now, due to his face shape, teeth, and tongue, he’s temporarily unable to communicate verbally in any meaningful way.”

“But it’s definitely temporary,” Nora presses.

“Yes. Trust me, miss, I am very familiar with permanent and impermanent changes on the human body. Your friend will be fine once this is over.”

Nora looks to the barracks door. “And how long _until_ this is over?”

“A few days? Hopefully?” Virgil scratches his chin. “I… considered asking him to entrust me with any offspring that survive this bizarre debacle, but he has enhanced what we have agreed to call the 'blanket fort’ with walls made out of the bunk beds, and I firmly believe that while he is still as rational and consciousness as ever, some reptilian/maternal instincts are leading him to be extremely… touchy. About certain subjects.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Nora takes a breath. “Yeah, definitely don’t mention any interest you have in his b… in his.”

“Offspring,” Virgil supplies.

“Right. Offspring.”

**

They know Deacon’s laid the eggs because he’s barricaded the door.

**

“Deacon,” Hancock calls from the hallway, holding a bowl of Blamco. “C'mon, buddy. It’s hot, it’s cheesy, it’s waiting for your weird giant mouth to inhale it.”

“Mention the Brahmin,” Virgil hisses.

“Oh, fuck, right.” Hancock raises his voice again. “It’s got Brahmin steak in it!”

Hancock, Virgil, and Nora all wait for a few moments, hoping to hear something. Eventually, Virgil turns to Nora.

“Not to single you out, but you are certainly the only one here who might have some semblance of parental instincts. Perhaps you can shed some light on this.”

“He wants to be left alone,” Nora guesses dully. She winces as Hancock jabs her. “Fuck. I don’t know. This isn’t anything like…” She rubs her face, moving to the door.

“Deacon, buddy, you can’t keep 'em warm and help 'em hatch if you’re starved to death. You want your mac and cheese? You want us to make you something else?”

More silence, but Nora’s straight back and perfect stillness inspire Hancock and Virgil to hold out similar hope. Finally, there are shuffling sounds, with the click-clack of Deacon’s toenails on the concrete floor. Scraping sounds. Longer silence, then clicks to the door.

The note pushed under it is in horribly messy scrawl but is definitely legible:

_MOLERAT_

_(PLEASE)_

**

Hancock’s the best versed in cooking Commonwealth food, but even he’s never cooked ten pounds of _anything_ , and it means using as many pots and pans as can be scavenged out of the kitchenette area and enlisting Virgil to help him make sure things are flipped before they were burnt.

“This is a good life skill, buddy,” Hancock coaches Virgil as he struggles with the tongs. “There’s no more of that weird Institute goop for you to eat, you gotta make regular food now.”

“I had been doing fine with the pre-war items Nora has been supplying me with,” Virgil grouses defensively.

“Yeah, and now you’ll learn how to make better protein than Salisbury steak." Hancock glances across the different burners and then turns to Nora. "This is definitely the right thing to do?”

“More food is better than not enough food,” Nora assures him. “And cut some of it up into little bits.”

“For the Deaconettes,” Hancock guesses, and elbows Virgil until he looks back to his pan and realizes he needs to flip again.

**

Nora dumps the first half of the food into a large stewpot, knocking on the door and then backing up a few feet. She, and Hancock and Virgil, who are watching from the far end of the hallway, forcibly do not gasp as a fully reptilian hand emerges to swipe the pot inside before disappearing again.

**

Five minutes later, Nora comes with the second half of the meat. “There’s little teensy-cut bits in here too,” she wheedles, holding the pot instead of setting it down this time. “Can we come in and make sure you’re okay in there?”

A low, warning rumble. Virgil, who has no personal experience with Deathclaws, is the only one who doesn’t tremble.

“Deacon,” Nora says gently. “We’re your friends. We’re here to give you food and help you protect them. I promise.”

Another, louder rumble, which pitches up and into a sharp scream. Hancock grabs Virgil’s bicep and yanks him back a few more meters by pure instinct alone.

“That’s bullshit,” Nora snaps, “and you know it. Come on. We trust each other. You and me. Right?”

A new sound, difficult to identify. More like Dogmeat when he’s been admonished.

“So unlock the door. It’s just me. Let me come see you.”

**

Nora is gone for five minutes and comes back white-faced, with two empty stewpots and a look of severe determination.

“What news?” Virgil presses.

Nora walks by him, dumping the pots forcibly in the sink and soaping them up to wash them out. Virgil exchanges a glance with Hancock before trying again.

“Did you see them? The eggs?”

“Heads,” Nora says shortly.

“ _Heads?_ ”

“Two. Poking out of shells.” Nora drags her sleeve across her forehead before leaning in and scrubbing with all her might. “I saw the claws at first, a tail, I didn’t recognize them, but. The heads.”

“The heads are what?”

“ _Raptors._ ”

**

“We poured all our studies into the species we could find DNA remnants of,” Virgil says quickly. “However useful or non-useful, but he must have - there’s a museum nearby with bones of several prehistoric - _damn_ Dave, of all the things to focus on when you’ve barely survived your own extinction, to-”

“We have to focus,” Nora says. “We need… to… jesus. Raptors.”

“Raptors are dinosaurs, right?” Hancock’s looking between them. “Is there another kind of raptor?”

“There are birds which happen to share the name raptor, but judging from Nora’s expression and the physical changes we’ve seen Deacon undergo in the past few days, I think we can safely say that we’re not so lucky as to have a _flock_ in there,” Virgil responds snippily. “I have at least a passing familiarity with theropods. I’m going to go to the door and ask about some key physical descriptions that might help us narrow down exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Hancock watches Nora scrub the pots for a while. Finally, he gets a rag from the table, standing next to her to help dry. When Virgil comes back he looks irritated.

“What’d he say?” Hancock asks.

“He responded with bidental percussives.”

“ _What?_ ” Hancock asks.

“Gnashing his teeth.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t you just _say_ that?”

Nora elbows Hancock. “No matter what kind it is, let’s focus on getting Deacon back to his old self, okay?”

“Deacon’s own DNA should begin overriding the injected DNA very soon. Now that he’s… laid… it is safe for him to physically revert to his original state.”

“How long’ll it take?”

“I have no idea, but hopefully he’ll at least be conveying his aggravation and mindless protectiveness in English within a day or so.”

**

The next sheet of paper pushed under the door says _CLOTHES_ , and the handwriting is a little neater than before. Nora washes the jeans and t-shirt before bringing them to the door, turning her head politely as she sees that he’s still pebble-skinned but mostly back to normal.

“'anks,” Deacon says, and surprises her by leaving the door open for her to come in. She shuts the door behind her, looking around in the corners of the room.

“Where…?”

Deacon grunts and gestures to the bathroom door, which Nora catches out of the corner of her eye.

“Oh. They acting up?”

Deacon pulls his shirt over his head and walks into her field of vision, shaking his head. “I'nt wan’ 'o … righ'en you.”

“Didn’t want to frighten me?” She guesses, and he nods, looking at his feet. “You’re… embarrassed,” she guesses, softening.

Deacon works his jaw. The shape is back to normal, mostly, and if she hadn’t known him for as long as she has she wouldn't be able to see how much he’s struggling to talk right now. After a few moments, he growls a mostly human growl and goes to the writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper:

_REALLY WANT TO KEEP._

She nods. “Still.. instinct-y?”

Deacon shrugs helplessly.

“Not sure if it’s temporary hormones or forever?”

He nods and shrugs miserably.

“Can I see them?”

Deacon sighs and goes to the door, opening it. Like a swarm of ducklings, they start cheeping excitedly, circling his bare feet and using his new denim jeans as means to climb up him. Deacon seems surprised when Nora laughs. “Uh?” He asks.

“They’re like kittens,” Nora explains.

**

Virgil explains that _velociraptor_ _mongoliensis_  aren’t going to get much taller than about knee high, and that their best hope might be raising them with 'the canine you’ve occasionally brought with you’.

“Dogmeat,” Hancock translates, thinking about it. “He could be a good example to them. Hell, Nora, and that junkyard dog you go picked up near Diamond City. They could practically be a dad and mom.”

“More dogs is better,” Virgil says quickly. “Let them adopt these… specimens… into their pack. If the dogs are even halfway socialized, that will go a long way to guiding the behavior of the raptors during early development.”

“Whaddaya think, sweetums?” Deacon slouches in his chair to look one raptor in the eye as it settles in his lap. “You wanna meet some puppies? Huh?”

Hancock smirks. “They might end up better trained than you, Deacon.”

Deacon pretends not to hear, leaning forward and kissing the little winged dinosaur on the top of its tiny head. “Gonna teach you 'sic’ first,” he promises it quietly.

**

They _do_  learn 'sic’, and they use it to take down molerats that stray too close to Sanctuary. Sturges builds them little not-dog houses next to Dogmeat and Junkyard, but as soon as winter comes, they beg and scratch at Deacon’s door every night until he lets them in to huddle at the foot of his bed.

They visit Virgil at Vault 75 every month or so to let him study the 'babies’, and Deacon and Virgil treat each other with the civility of a man who hates his children’s pediatrician and a doctor who wants to annex several fascinating live subjects, respectively. Still, all six raptors seem to have a special fondness for Hancock, Virgil, and Nora, and the way they nip at his fingertips and climb onto his shoulders when he’s trying to weigh them makes it hard for Deacon to really stay completely untrusting.

MacCready is mostly disappointed that they aren’t going to grow into giant radioactive monsters that they can send after raiders, but he gets over it in time. Preston tries to teach them tricks, but is honestly happiest when they’re crowded under his jacket during rainstorms. Piper doesn’t even handle cats well, so the raptors are right out, and Nick… Nick confuses the raptors more than the raptors confuse Nick, honestly. They tilt their head and sniff the air and, after a few weeks, decide that Nick’s jacket is also acceptable to cluster up in when it’s raining and Nick has made the mistake of sitting down.

Dave’s skull winds up making a decent book end in Deacon’s room.


End file.
